


an experiment in social distancing

by simplyclockwork



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Covid-19 Related, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fluff, Fluffy Smut, Isolation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, POV John Watson, Praise Kink, Quarantine, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Smut, Video Sex, Webcamming, gentle smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23175367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplyclockwork/pseuds/simplyclockwork
Summary: Sherlock and John explore the less G-rated potential of social distancing through video chat.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 32
Kudos: 202
Collections: Isolated Johnlock Collection, Sherlock and John Stories that Ease the Soul





	an experiment in social distancing

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Эксперимент по социальному дистанцированию (an experiment in social distancing)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23945314) by [Lesli_rus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lesli_rus/pseuds/Lesli_rus)



> Thank you to [CarmillaCarmine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CarmillaCarmine/pseuds/CarmillaCarmine) for coming up with the idea for isolation/quarantine-based Johnlock fics to keep us grounded during the pandemic. 
> 
> Stay safe everyone, and happy Red Pants Monday!

“I hate this,” Sherlock said, glaring into the webcam with a dour expression. “This is stupid, and I hate this.”

John sighed, shifting in his seat and forcing a smile for the stroppy detective pouting at him through the video connection on his laptop. “I know, Sherlock,” he replied, shrugging. “But there’s not much to be done—they’ve ordered everyone from the conference to self-quarantine, and they’re not going to let us leave the hotels until the two-week window has passed.”

Sherlock’s face darkened, and he glared somewhere beyond the laptop screen. “Don’t see why I have to quarantine as well.”

Rubbing a hand over his face, John closed his eyes, praying for patience. “I’ve explained this, Sherlock,” he began, repeating himself for what felt like the hundredth time since they had both been forced into self-quarantine four days ago. “If I’ve been exposed, you might have been exposed. I was working in the clinic before I left, after all.”

A low, frustrated huff communicated Sherlock’s opinion on the matter.

“Why did you have to go to that stupid conference anyway?” he muttered, and John opened his eyes with a small smile.

“I miss you, too,” he said, and Sherlock’s pout slipped just long enough for him to preen at the comment.

“How much longer?” he asked, and John’s face tightened, knowing Sherlock wouldn’t like the answer to his question.

“Ten more days.”

Sherlock’s face, as predicted, soured, and he crossed his arms tight over his chest. He was wrapped in a sheet, and the material slipped, revealing a bare shoulder and the graceful curve of a collarbone. John leaned closer to the laptop, tongue sweeping out over his bottom lip in an unconscious gesture of interest.

“What’re you wearing under that?” John asked, and Sherlock’s head whipped around, eyes fixing on the camera, looking right at John. His full lips curved into a sly smirk and John’s pulse sped up.

“Nothing,” Sherlock replied, and John’s breath quickened.

“What—not even pants?”

Sherlock’s eyes glittered. “Not even pants,” he confirmed, voice smug. John closed his eyes with a groan, and he leaned back in the chair.

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. When he opened his eyes again, Sherlock was sitting forward, hands steepled together beneath his chin. The expression on his face was undeniably devious.

“John…” he began before pausing, lips pursing. John squinted at him, a flutter of excitement—and maybe a little foreboding—flickering in his stomach.

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Well, there is a certain practice I’ve heard of…” the words trailed off again. John ground his teeth, thinking he might just die of frustrated curiousity well before he showed any signs of having caught the virus.

“Spit it out, Sherlock,” he demanded, and the detective let out a low chuckle.

“Very well, John.” Sherlock sat for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. Finally, he spoke again. “In the vein of social distancing, people are, apparently, connecting with one another via remote access. Such as we are doing now. Right?”

John frowned, not entirely tracking where this was going. “Ye-es…” he said slowly, drawing the word out to show his lack of understanding. Sherlock’s grin only widened, taking on a predatory look.

“While others are using video-interface technology to watch movies together, talk, play games, etcetera, I propose something…different.”

His breath caught in his throat as something clicked into place for John. He licked his lips again, leaning forward.

“Sherlock,” he said, slow and measured. “Are you saying you want to—”

“Engage in video chat sex, yes,” Sherlock interrupted, suddenly sounding very eager and very pleased. John’s face went bright red.

“Ah, I see—” he began, before Sherlock cut him off again.

“Have you not done it before?” he demanded, and John chuckled, shaking his head.

“Of course I have,” he replied. “I was deployed for almost three years. A wank only gets you so far.” John squinted, studying Sherlock’s face. “Have _you_ ever tried it?”

Sherlock’s cheeks flushed, and he shifted, suddenly bashful. “No,” he admitted. John smiled, his expression gentling.

“You’re adorable, you know that?”

Brows drawing down, Sherlock bared his teeth in a grimace. “Shut up, John.”

Smirking, John leaned closer to the laptop, biting his bottom lip in the way he knew drove Sherlock nuts. “That mean you don’t want to hear me?”

It didn’t seem possible, but Sherlock’s blush deepened. “I never said that,” he replied, and John grinned.

“Good,” he hummed, winking at the detective’s image on the screen. “Because I wasn’t planning to be quiet.” Sherlock made a soft whine, and John chuckled. “Oh, good, you’re not either.”

Sherlock shot him a glare, but John ignored it. Sitting back, he nodded to the camera. “All right, then. Go ahead.”

The detective stared, eyes going wide and helpless. John knew that look: Sherlock’s brain, going offline. Taking pity on him, John made a suggestion. “Why don’t you show me what’s under that sheet?”

Sherlock’s face was decidedly nervous, always cautious in new territory when it came to intimacy and sexual acts. John had patiently and carefully walked him through much of it, including their—and Sherlock’s—first time, and, typically, he would never push. But Sherlock had been the one to suggest this, and John wanted it to be a positive experience for them both. When Sherlock continued to hesitate, John changed tactics. 

“Is it easier if I start?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded after a moment. John smiled.

“All right. Just give me a second—I’ll move to the bed.” Picking up the laptop, he moved across the hotel room to the queen bed. Pausing to position the computer so Sherlock would be able to see him, John began to unbutton his shirt. His vision was momentarily obscured as he pulled it off, then the undershirt beneath over his head. As John tossed it to the floor, he looked up to see Sherlock was leaning forward, chin balanced on his clasped hands, elbows on the kitchen table. John grinned at him, charmed by the wide-eyed attention his partner displayed, giving John the same intense focus he usually reserved for crime scenes. He started on his jeans, loosening and removing the belt before releasing the button at the top of his fly.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and John raised his head again to peek at Sherlock. The detective’s eyes were fixed on John’s hands, his bottom lip sucked in between his teeth. John’s grin widened to a smirk, and he slid down the zipper with a smooth flick of his fingers, then pushed the jeans down to his ankles. After kicking them off, he stood in his red pants, placed hands on hips, and cocked an eyebrow at Sherlock.

“Take them off!” Sherlock commanded, rumbling voice emerging tinny from the laptop speakers. “Off, John! Take them off!”

John shook his head, his smile mischievous.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I’m much too naked here, all on my own. It’s your turn.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, obviously annoyed. “Fine, John _Hamish_ Watson,” he grumbled, using John’s hated middle name simply because he knew how much John hated it. John feigned a scowl, but it was quickly erased as Sherlock pushed away from the table, backed up until he was standing fully in frame, and dropped the sheet.

He was, indeed, quite naked beneath it. John’s mouth watered at the sight, and he was more than a little pleased to see that Sherlock was already half-hard, his cock flushed and pert between his long, pale legs.

“Happy?” Sherlock demanded, spreading his arms out at his sides in an obviously exasperated gesture. “ _Now_ , will you take those ridiculous red pants off?”

“They’re not ridiculous,” John protested. “And I know you like them, so you can stuff it.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and made a ‘hurry up’ motion with his fingers, and John laughed. “All right, all right,” he placated, shifting to one foot as he tugged the red pants off, letting them join the rest of his clothes on the floor. Looking up again, he let out a surprised laugh.

Sherlock had moved forward again, and his face was inches from the laptop, eyes narrowed with focus.

“Bloody hell,” John laughed, and Sherlock scowled.

“The resolution of this screen is pitiful, John,” Sherlock complained. “I can barely tell what I’m looking at.”

John snorted. “What, you can’t remember what goes where?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, face dominating the image, but didn’t deign to reply to the comment. Instead, he said, “touch yourself, John.”

John skated a hand over his chest, over the rising nubs of his nipples. “Touch where? Here?” His hand moved lower, tracing down to his navel. “Or here?” Sherlock’s breathing quickened, then John bent and touched a fingertip to his own kneecap. “Or did you mean here?”

The noise Sherlock made was pure frustration. “John!” he ground out, voice rising. “You _know_ I am not asking you to touch your damn patella!”

Sauntering toward the laptop, John sat on the edge of the bed, lifting the computer up so his face was in frame. “Oh?” he said, slowly, pitching his voice low. Sherlock’s eyes closed halfway, the pupils widening at the tone. “How about you tell me _exactly_ where you’d like me to touch myself?”

Sherlock’s breathing was loud over the speakers, and John forced back a grin. Now was not the time for levity. Now was the time for him to let Sherlock be in charge—let him find his comfort in what was a new experience in their relationship.

The reply came quickly, a breathy whisper.

“Between your legs,” Sherlock murmured. His pupils were blown wide, the words heavy with desire. “Stroke your cock, John.”

“Mm, I’d love to,” John replied, with just a hint of cheek. He gripped himself, wrapping his fingers along his hardening length, sliding from root to tip in a slow, aching pull.

Sherlock made a low, groaning noise, and John looked up to offer a crooked little smile. His hand moved in smooth, unhurried strokes, and Sherlock’s lips parted.

“I want you in my mouth,” he said, and John closed his eyes at the words, humming at the images brought to mind with that admission.

“Me too,” he replied, and Sherlock’s breathing caught. John continued, still stroking himself slowly. “Mmm, would be so warm, so wet. Ah, Sherlock…” the name emerged breathy and deep from his lungs, and Sherlock made a soft answering noise. John forced his eyes open.

“I want you to touch yourself, too,” he said, and Sherlock nodded, all too eager to agree. The image swung and changed, the hallway flashing past as Sherlock appeared to carry the conversation to their bedroom. The screen was dark for a moment before light appeared with a click, and Sherlock was once more in frame. Based on the picture, he had set the computer on the bedside table. He arranged himself on the bed, and John was pleased—and a little touched—to see Sherlock had chosen to lay on John’s side of the mattress.

Sherlock was watching him expectantly, eyes shifting from John’s face to his still-moving fist.

“Go ahead, beautiful,” John murmured, pushing his voice into a low purr. “Touch yourself for me. Wherever you want.”

Sherlock’s face flushed at the endearment, but his eyes glittered, and he immediately grabbed his left knee, his expression impish. John laughed, hard enough that his stomach hurt, pausing the movements of his hand on his now very hard erection. Sherlock smiled, but the expression disappeared quickly, hands skating up his pale thighs to stroke the v-shaped dip between his legs. John sucked in a breath and took himself in hand again with a groan.

Long fingers wrapped around Sherlock’s cock, now erect, and a long, low moan drifted from the laptop speakers, making John close his eyes.

“Oh, god,” he breathed. “That sounds—bloody hell, that’s absolutely _sinful_.”

Sherlock made a pleased noise in his throat, and John’s hand slowed.

“Are you imagining it’s my hand?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded. His eyes were open in slits, lashes nearly brushing his flushed cheeks. Those full lips were wet and parted, and John ached to taste them. “Good,” he murmured, shifting to alleviate his left leg as it started to tingle from his awkward position. “God, you’re gorgeous.”

Sherlock let out a soft whine, and John’s breath caught. “John,” he whispered, and his voice was rough.

“I’m here, baby.” John palmed his bollocks, stroking his fingertips slowly along a drop of pre-come beading the tip of his cock. He made a sound of his own, a quiet, sighing moan, and watched Sherlock stroke until the detective made a weird face. John picked up on the cause immediately.

“Don’t forget the lube, love,” he said, and Sherlock nodded, tilting clumsily to the side, out of frame. When he returned, centred once more, hand returning to his cock, John saw his fingers were slickened. “Good boy,” John praised, and Sherlock shivered.

“Oh, John…” he breathed. John closed his eyes, then forced them open again, not wanting to miss a second of the vision in front of him.

“Yes, Sherlock,” he encouraged. “So good, baby, you look _so good_.” His hand tightened on his own cock, and John groaned. “Oh, god, Sherlock, the things I want to do to you.”

“Tell—” Sherlock’s voice broke, and he panted loudly, eyes squeezing shut. His hips twitched, and, when his eyes flew open again, the silvery irises were darker. “Tell me,” he said, and John smiled.

“My pleasure,” he replied, face growing serious. “First, I think I would take a moment to watch you. Just watch, like this, because, god, Sherlock, you are _stunning_. I love this—watching you touch yourself. Make yourself feel good, baby, go on.”

Sherlock’s strokes quickened, and his head fell back, little breathy whines slipping from his lips. John sucked in a breath, body tensing in reaction.

“Yeah, Sherlock, just like that. Oh, love, you’re amazing. Mmmm…” John paused, Sherlock’s sounds almost pushing him over the edge. Taking a moment, he slowed his strokes, breathing loudly through his nose to calm himself, switching his focus to Sherlock instead. “Yeah, that’s great. So hard just to watch you without touching. Can’t help it, you’re so gorgeous. I have to kiss you, taste you.” John’s words were tremulous, emerging between heavy breaths.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock moaned. “Oh, yes, please.”

“I’d make my way down your body,” John replied, laying the imagery out slowly, watching Sherlock’s face twist with pleasure. “With my hands, with my mouth. Slowly, so slowly. It would drive you crazy, Sherlock. Absolutely crazy.”

“Oh, god.”

John closed his eyes, letting his imagination shape the fantasy as he relayed it to Sherlock over the video connection. “I can taste you, so sweet, salty. Mm. God, you taste good, Sherlock.” He licked his lips, pausing to bring himself back from the brink. “I’m making my way down, lower, lower. You’re so hard, wiggling, I can’t hold myself back anymore. I bend, drag my tongue over the underside of your cock.”

“Oh!” Sherlock gasped, the air rushing out of his mouth in a loud whoosh. “Oh, yes, yes, John.”

“I take you in my mouth,” John murmured, opening his eyes to see Sherlock again. The detective was quivering, his own eyes shut tight, tongue caught between his teeth. John shivered at the sight of it, stroking himself harder. “Suck you in deep. Swirl my tongue around the tip, licking and tasting you.” He paused, taking in the beautiful image in front of him. “Can you feel it, Sherlock?” he asked. “Can you feel my mouth on you?”

“Yes, John,” Sherlock whimpered. His free hand gripped at the sheets beneath him, the muscles standing out in his forearm. “Oh, _John…_ ”

“That’s right, baby,” John cooed, pleasure pooling in his stomach, his hand twisting in slow then fast corkscrew motions around his erection. “You can lift your hips—go ahead, Sherlock. Fuck my mouth.”

The sound Sherlock made in response nearly finished him right then and there, and John clenched his jaw, fighting to remain on the edge. Sherlock was close, hips lifting in little thrusts, soft, panting cries slipping from his lips. John wanted him to finish first, and so he held himself back.

“Oh, Sherlock, look at you,” he breathed, reverent. “You’re so beautiful. God, I love you, you brilliant, gorgeous man.”

Sherlock’s body tensed, and his head fell back, eyes flying open with a cry as he came, moaning, _“John!”_ His hips lifted, stuttered, and come spilled from his cock, all over his fist. John watched him ride out his climax and sped his own hand faster, biting his lip until white burst behind his eyes, and he was coming as well, eyes squeezed shut.

“Oh, Sherlock, oh, god, oh, _ohhhhh._ ”

John collapsed back against the mattress, spent, his breathing loud and quick. Struggling onto his elbows, he looked at the laptop. Sherlock was watching him with half-open, sleepy eyes, his pale face and chest still flushed with the force of his own orgasm.

“Hey, beautiful,” John murmured, and Sherlock’s teeth sank into his bottom lip.

“I love you, too, John,” he said, and John grinned. Sherlock’s lips pushed into a sudden pout. “Now, hurry up and come home.”

John laughed. “I promise I will as soon as I can.”


End file.
